


A Friend Can Come In Handy

by bubblebangbaby



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn Watching, no homo bro, totally homo bro, useless bisexual akira strikes again, what's better than this just guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 13:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21037160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebangbaby/pseuds/bubblebangbaby
Summary: (AKA Ryuji, that is not your penis, put it down young man: Part Deux)It's normal and totally no-homo for best friends to watch porn together, right?...Right?





	A Friend Can Come In Handy

**Author's Note:**

> I... I'm alive? Kind of? I've been in writers block hell for so long, but I finally managed to finish this. Pray for me that I can maintain some momentum. Also, big thanks to tbandido for editing!
> 
> Also also, I realized that you could potentially read this as a sequel to "mara-velous", so feel free to connect them if you like. I just like writing the awkward adventures of Akira Kurusu, Useless Bisexual. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Bzz**

The buzz of Akira’s phone rattles against the metal of the desk, and he scrambles to shove it under Morgana. He prays Mr. Hiruta doesn’t turn around. 

**Bzz**

“Hey! Why didn’t you turn it off?” 

“Shut  _ up _ !” 

Mr. Hiruta turns around. 

“Whichever one of you kids has the meowing ringtone: you’re very lucky I’m a cat man.” Silence. “Which reminds me, there’s an interesting aspect of feline vocalization that ties in to the respiratory…” He turns back around. Akira remembers to breathe. He pulls his phone back out from under Morgana’s belly with a whispered apology and turns off the vibration. His tail lashes, but at least he doesn’t try to lecture him again. 

**skelebro:** yo dude im so effin booooored

**skelebro:** more x-folders tonight? 

**whysocereal:** you nearly gave me a heart attack and detention from hiruta dude

**skelebro:** u didn’t turn ur ringer off????

**whysocereal:** stfu

**whysocereal:** but yeah, let’s hang out tonight

**whysocereal:** I already got the next disc

* * *

It’s a warm night, but not so warm that Akira and Ryuji can’t sprawl against each other on the creaky old couch. Morgana’s long gone, claiming to need to “scout”—a thin excuse, given that he jumped up to leave as soon as the first monster popped out of the darkness on the screen. All the better. They’re both focused on watching Scullsy in the shower, washing alien ichor out of her hair. The camera skims down her bare legs to focus on the green goop circling the shower drain, and the credits start to roll. Akira stretches and groans and flops back against the arm of the couch in an overdramatic swoon. 

“God… she’s so hot I can’t take it...”

“Scullsy? Really, dude?”

“Don’t give me that look.” Akira can’t see him, but he knows the look. 

“Fuck off, I’ll give you any look I want.” A wicked grin blooms on Akira’s face and he pops up and leans right into Ryuji’s face, getting uncomfortably close and licking his lips.

“ _ Any _ look, hmmmm?” He waggles his tongue for emphasis and Ryuji shoves him back over.  _ Worth it _ .

“Oh, fuck  _ off _ ! You effin’ creep!” He doesn’t mean it, he’s trying too hard to hold back laughter to mean it. Akira gives in first, laughing too hard to keep teasing. Ryuji pushes him off the couch and shoves him with his foot, trying his damnedest to send him skidding across the floor like a hockey puck. It takes a good minute and a half for Akira to catch his breath and come crawling back over to his spot in front of the shitty TV, tucked close to his best friend’s side.

Ryuji shoves him off again.

“Ow! Shit! Okay, truce, truce. Here, dude, turn it off and I’ll show you proof. That’s the end of the disc, anyway.” He bounces back up and boots up his old laptop, flopping into the computer chair and spinning around as the shitty thing grinds to some semblance of life. “It’ll take a minute, but Ann sent me a link that Shiho sent her. It’s this old archive of X-Folders promo pictures from back in the day. God, it’s like...  _ damn _ .” Ryuji sighs a long, dramatic sigh, but he still ambles over to grab the back of his chair to stop it spinning, leans over his shoulder like he might miss something.

Akira’s not just fucking with him, not about something as serious as this. It feels like a year before the pictures finally start to pop up. It’s all high-res scans of old magazines with the X-Folders actress in various states of undress: flaunting expanses of pale cleavage and long legs in a number of mini dresses and skintight catsuits; wearing nothing but long leather gloves and crossing her arms to cover her chest; or—Akira’s personal favorite—lounging in an old-fashioned western bathtub, soaked to the skin in a transparent silk dress with ropes of her red hair barely concealing the peaks of her nipples, piercing blue eyes fixed in challenge.

Ryuji whistles long and low. “Yeah, all right dude. You’re right.”

“Don’t question your leader’s taste.” 

“All right,  _ leader. _ ” Ryuji snorts and raps his knuckles on Akira’s head, the grin on his face sharp and smug as fuck, like he’d just snatched a bird out of midair. “Izzat your taste, then? All that leather n’shit? Y’want her to tie you up and step on you?”

Akira rolls his eyes.

“Look who’s talking, Mr. ‘I cream my pants every time Panther cracks her whip’.”

“Oh, bullshit!”

“Hit a nerve, huh?”

“Shut up, man!” Ryuji shoves him over for the third time, so hard Akira stumbles off the chair onto the floor. Definitely hit a nerve.

“Ooh, Panther, whip me harder,” Akira simpers, leering up at Ryuji, watching his face get redder and redder. “Step on me, pleeease, sit on my faaaace!”

“I’ll sit on your face, asshole!”

“Promise?” Akira waggles his eyebrows and the look that comes over Ryuji’s face has him rolling facedown into the nearest throw pillow, scream-laughing until tears soak the fabric.  _ Smack _ ! Another pillow lands hard on his back, then again, and again. Akira can’t stop laughing.

“Why are you like this?!” Ryuji’s laughing too, despite himself.

“No—kshh—no… no homo—ow!” Ryuji’s full weight lands on his back and he chokes and hiccups, still sobbing with laughter, as his face—and his glasses—are crushed hard into the pillow. Akira flails an arm back, trying to hit him, but his friend has him pinned good.

“You give up?”

“Hrrmmff!” The weight lifts off him, and Akira gasps. “My glasses...” he groans, checking them over and wiping off the tear-smeared lenses with his shirt. Ryuji snorts and peers over Akira’s shoulder.

“Ain’t they fake though?”

“Yeah, but I still don’t want them broken.”

“Mmn… Sorry.” He actually sounds almost chagrined. A miracle.

“S’ok.” Akira shoves his glasses back up his nose and gives Ryuji a sidelong look. “I was right about Scullsy though, huh?” Ryuji snorts right in his ear and pulls away from him, hopping up onto the bed and digging through his bag.

“Yeah, I guess man, whatever. But here, I’ll show ya something better,” he says, rolling his eyes and holding up his phone. Akira ambles to his feet, hops onto the bed too and leans over his shoulder, curious. Ryuji puts his whole hand over Akira’s face and shoves him back, making him whine out loud.

“Hey! Glasses!”

“Just take ‘em off, dude.” He doesn’t sound the least bit chagrined, actually. Finally he holds up the phone with a paused video in fullscreen on it, a sly grin on his face. “Check it out.”

Akira pops back up to take his place again, hooking his chin over Ryuji’s shoulder to watch. A girl with huge breasts and reddish pigtails is dutifully servicing two men, her face bobbing in and out of the pixelated area as she sucks; big buoyant tits bouncing with every thrust of the other man into her. The hair makes her look a little like Risette, if you squint. He can see why Ryuji likes this one. The girl pulls away from the guy fucking her to jerk the other one’s cock fast and eager, her eyes half-closed and mouth open like she’s expecting a surprise treat. She gets it within seconds, the camera zooming in on her face as cum sprays across her cheeks and into her mouth. With a cheery grin, she swallows and sticks out her tongue, flashing twin peace signs and winking.

It  _ is _ pretty hot. The girl looks really into it, in a way too many AV stars don’t. When the second guy grabs her by the waist and pushes her down to start fucking her again, she makes an adorable little noise, half squeak and half moan. Akira scoots back a little so his cock doesn’t start poking Ryuji in the ass. Now,  _ that _ would be awkward.

“Ain’t she cute?” Ryuji butts in, breaking Akira’s focus on the video. Somehow, it doesn’t dissuade his cock’s concentration. He shifts again, self-consciously.

“Yeah, she’s real cute.” He’s noticing, now, the way Ryuji’s blatantly adjusting his pants. The video keeps going, the girl’s moans getting more shrill until the man cums inside her with a grunt. It’s pixelated, but she thrusts her fingers inside herself and licks the cum off them with a big, smug grin. The video stops.

“That’s Mizuno, she’s so great,” Ryuji pipes up again. “I’ve got a couple more of her, wanna see?” Akira makes a noncommittal grunt. There’s a little part of him murmuring uncomfortably in the back of his head. It’s hot, sure. They’re both clearly getting worked up. Is that weird? What happens next?

Ryuji’s just looking at him expectantly, clearly comfortable with everything at the moment. God, he looks so fucking  _ relaxed. _ The part of Akira that’s been attracted to Ryuji since they first met is making him want to scream like a boiling teakettle. A quieter, cheekier part of Akira whispers that if Ryuji’s so confident... he could push his luck right now. It’s a compelling argument. Akira grins.

“I’ve got something even better, man.” He pulls away from Ryuji and crosses the room, hiding his creeping anxiety behind the swagger in his gait. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his hard-on. It’s not like Ryuji’s been hiding his, after all. He grabs the old laptop off the desk and brings it over to the couch, pulling the chair around to set it on and gesturing to it dramatically, like some kind of idiot game show host showing off a dishwasher.

“What, you got some kinda H-game?” Akira just shakes his head and pulls up a browser tab. There’s a random tube site already in his last visited, so he navigates to the last thing he watched, sets it to full screen, and sits back. The video buffers for a minute, then chugs to life, showing a woman bent over some kind of backless chair or ottoman. Her arms are bound, legs spread; she’s blindfolded, gagged. Her long dark hair spills over her shoulders, snags on the cushion under her. The camera is focused on her ass and the uncensored, mosaic-free view of her naked cunt. Another woman enters the shot and grabs the bound girl’s ass with both hands, squeezing it and giggling before laying a hearty, open-hand slap across the inviting flesh.

Beside him, Ryuji sounds like a deflating balloon.

“Hhhh… holy shit dude?”

“Shh, just watch.”

“So you  _ are  _ into that S&M shit!”

“Shut  _ up _ !” He tries to slap a hand over Ryuji’s mouth, but misses, catches him upside the head. It’s a testament to the quality of the porn that Ryuji barely even registers the hit. 

On the screen, the other woman has a bright neon phallus strapped to her crotch. It bobs cheerily as she lines it up, angling it so she can slide it into the inviting entrance before her. She thrusts slow at first, then faster, harder, until she’s got one spike-heeled sandal braced on the bench to support her as she slams in again and again. The shots cut from the bottom girl’s face, red and blotchy behind the blindfold as she squirms against her bonds and screams into her gag; to a close-up of the dildo thrusting in and out of her dripping pussy, to a view of both of them, the arc of their bodies contrasted against the black background. It’s a nice clip, one Akira’s always happy to rewatch. 

He doesn’t notice it until he hears the slick slap of skin on skin continuing on after the end of the video. Ryuji has his fly open and his cock in his hand and he’s stroking it, tight and slow. Akira feels like his brain has thrown a fuse all of a sudden. He can see how hard Ryuji is, see the little drop of precum oozing between his fingers, see the way his foreskin slips along his head as he strokes. He freezes. He can’t look away.

“Uh... Ryuji?” he finally squeaks out. Ryuji’s hand stops moving.

“Huh? Ah… sorry, man.” He laughs but doesn’t make a move to tuck himself back into his pants. “That was  _ so _ fuckin’ hot! How’d you get uncensored shit, anyway?” He’s still not covering himself. He’s just sitting there, his rock-hard cock out and proud, like it’s totally normal. Akira has to force himself to drag his eyes back to the laptop screen.

“I… uh. Futaba. She, uh, set up a VPN for me, routes stuff through another country.” He busies himself clicking through the tube site, trying to find another clip to pull up so he’s not tempted to look back at Ryuji.

“Shit, dude! She’s a genius and a pervert too?”

“Dunno about that, maybe she uses it to hack bank accounts or something? I didn’t ask, dude, I’m already on probation.” Ryuji snorts and grabs the mouse out of Akira’s hand to browse the videos himself.

“Well, whatever man. Hey, this one looks cool!” Sure. Ok, this is just happening. Ryuji has his dick out, Akira’s is so hard in his pants it’s starting to hurt, and they’re browsing uncensored foreign porn together.

Normal bro stuff.

Ryuji brings up the video he wants: some random Russian girl riding a man who doesn’t even merit having his face in the shot. It doesn’t even matter what it is at this point. Akira’s watching Ryuji out of the corner of his eye, watching his hand going back to his cock. Akira unzips his own pants. Ryuji doesn’t seem to notice. He takes a couple breaths to calm his nerves. Ok. He’s just… doing this. He’s sitting here with his dick in his hand, with Ryuji’s body radiating warmth beside him. With the familiar-unfamiliar smell of his laundry detergent and his skin and the gel in his hair; with the nameless girl’s tinny moans rolling out of the laptop speakers and his own dick hard in his hand.

_ Fuck it _ .

He scoots a little closer and hooks his chin over Ryuji’s shoulder again, tries to focus on the video. Shivery relief floods through him and his cock throbs in his hand as he tightens his grip and starts to jerk himself properly.  _ God.  _ Between the palace, work, and Morgana’s loud fretting anytime he takes more than a few minutes in the bathroom, it’s been way, way too long since he’s had a chance to do this. He bites down on his lip, swallows down a moan, and closes his eyes. His thighs flex and hips tense as he strokes himself hard and fast. It’s a rush of pleasure and relief, and Ryuji’s presence next to him just adds another sweet, warm, glowing dimension to it that has him on the edge in an instant. 

“Dude! What the hell?”

Ok… nevermind.

The sweet tension of arousal in his gut turns into a ball of ice. He recoils back to put space between them, trying not to look as guilty and terrified as he feels.

“Sorry, I was—it’s hard to see the screen from that angle and—”

“No, not—guh!” Ryuji cuts him off, waving both hands at him dismissively. “Not that. I mean what are you doing to your  _ dick _ , man?”

“Uh.” Another fuse blows in Akira’s brain. Hopefully that one wasn’t attached to something important.

“You’re jerkin’ it so fast you elbowed me in the ribs, dude. You trying to rip it off or something?”

“Uh. No…?”

“You like—you always do it like that?” Ryuji looks as bewildered as he feels. Is he seriously… is he criticizing Akira’s masturbation technique or something?

What the  _ fuck. _

“What, are you gonna reach over and do it ‘right’ if I say yes?” He’s being a little too snarky, too acidic, maybe. But Ryuji doesn’t flinch. He just snorts and rolls his eyes.

“You know you can get calluses on your dick, right?”

“Uh.”

“S’true! Here, just like… try doin’ it like this, watch.” Ryuji goes back to stroking himself, and keeps looking at Akira out of the corner of his eye as he does. Akira watches. Like he could be doing anything else. 

Ryuji’s hand is deft and his strokes are slow, gentle; his fingers curling over the head on each upstroke, teasing and rubbing at his most sensitive spots with only the cushion of foreskin between fingers and flesh.

Akira’s not staring. He’s  _ definitely  _ not drooling. He’s  _ observing _ . Yeah, that’s it.

Ryuji takes a moment to focus on the head of his cock, his precum-slicked fingers dancing lightly around the ridge, the tip, the delicate underside. His breath hitches in his throat, and Akira’s own cock gives an impatient little twitch. Observing. Right.

It’s not like he’s never tried different ways of jacking off. When he was younger and just figuring things out, he would spend hours locked in his room, thrusting into his fist or grinding against his mattress. Using spit or lotion to make it slick and sweet, finding all the most sensitive spots with his fingertips until he would come unexpectedly, his legs aching and trembling with it. But that was then. He hasn’t had that kind of time and privacy in years. It’s down to muscle memory lately, and his muscle memory is locked on “hard and fast”. He chases orgasm like a fierce, fleeting beast, runs it down and overwhelms it as fast as possible. Overkill. Delicacy and proficiency are for things he can do in public.

It doesn’t take long—even as he’s watching Ryuji and trying to copy the motions precisely—for the muscle memory to take over. Dancing fingers tighten their grip, and he’s chasing that peak again, his hand flying in a blur as he gets closer— _ closer _ —

There’s a hand around his wrist, strong and unexpected and alien. He opens his eyes.

Ryuji’s stopped touching himself and he’s staring at Akira in astonished disappointment. His fingers are strong around Akira’s wrist, holding his arm still. Akira’s breath knots up in his throat so that he can’t even make a sound. His fingers so close, so  _ close  _ to touching him…

“Man, you’re really effin’ stuck on that, huh?” Akira can’t respond, not with Ryuji’s face so near and his hands  _ on  _ him, practically in his lap— “Look, I… Just lemme show you, ok?”

Ryuji’s hand moves to cover Akira’s own, holding it in place and guiding its motion into something slower, deliberate. He ought to protest, shouldn’t he? Ought to object to his best friend getting so close—so  _ close— _

But it feels so, so, so good, so much better than his own hand alone. Ryuji’s movements are strong and sure and teasing and he’s suddenly riding an edge of pleasure more delicate and sharp and keen than anything he’s ever done for himself. Ryuji’s so _ close _ to him _ . _ Akira’s suddenly hyper-aware of his breath ghosting along his jaw and the crush of shoulder against chest against shoulder in the small space on the bed. He was already so close to coming,  _ so  _ close, and now he can feel it, orgasm like a light rushing toward him in the confines of a tunnel, and—

Ryuji pulls his hands away.

Akira makes a little confused noise. Words are beyond him right now. Ryuji just looks pleased, his expression so open and innocently proud it’s embarrassing to look at.

“See? You just gotta  _ slow down, _ man. It feels way better if you do!” Akira swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s pretty sure that the technique isn’t what’s making him feel this good right now. He wants more, and he knows better than to ask. Stupid sexy Ryuji. He takes a second to take a long, slow breath, to lick his lips and kick the tatters of his own courage into motion.

“Damn, you’re uh. Really going to blue ball me like that, huh?” It’s a joke, of course. But the kind of joke with a question mark attached. A footnote, hidden in the margins in the tiniest font.

_ *...unless you’re into it. _

He waits for the joke to land.

He waits.

Ryuji lets out a long, shuddering breath, and Akira risks a glance at his face. Just in time to see the pieces snap into place. Ryuji’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“’Course not, man. ‘Course not.” Schrodinger's joke is dead after all. Ryuji’s hand wraps around his cock again, ducking under Akira’s own fingers and tossing out any pretense of “helping”. He grips him with purpose, skin to skin. Akira shudders. He risks a glance up through his hair at Ryuji’s face again, and sees he’s watching too, eyes fixed on Akira’s face instead of his cock, like he’s seeing the real challenge before him there. Akira looks away. He knows he’s shaking, but he can’t stop, can’t force his muscles to come to heel.

The air between them is heavy, quivering with something he can’t look directly at. Like he can’t look directly in Ryuji’s eyes right now. His thighs ache with it. When Ryuji’s hand makes its slow way up his shaft, Akira shudders. Again. Up to the head and back down, fingers rolling against it, thumb flicking against the tip and down the underside. His world narrows to this room, this crackling air, these fingers on him strong and sure. He can’t catch his breath for some reason. Those fingers stop gripping him to dance around the head of his cock instead, just like he had seen Ryuji touch his own cock. His bones turn to water. It’s better than he could have imagined, better than he could ever have done for himself. He drops, gasping, lets his head rest against his best friend’s shoulder. He knows he’s panting now, even as he’s choking off his breaths so he doesn’t moan.

If he feels Ryuji’s other hand come up to pull him in closer, to stroke his heaving back, he’ll never mention it.

He’s close again, so close but so  _ far _ , because Ryuji keeps easing off the pressure of his fingertips, keeps giving him just a scant few firm strokes before backing away and concentrating on the rest of his shaft, his hip bones, his thighs, his balls, everywhere but where he  _ needs _ to be touched. His face is buried in Ryuji’s shirt and all he can feel and smell is  _ him _ . His laundry detergent and soap, his skin and sweat, unfamiliar and familiar and perfect. It feels like hours and seconds all at once. He floats on it, nothing left in him but the sensations of his aching cock and shaking legs.

He’s lost all sense of time when Ryuji takes mercy on him and lets his strokes turn quick and firm—but, tellingly, not  _ too  _ quick or firm. He speeds up, but only so much, only just enough. When Akira falls over the edge, the fall takes longer than he could have imagined, slow and sweet and unbearable until he feels like he’s been coming for hours, days even. But finally, finally he runs dry. All the tension runs out of his legs at once and he can feel every rough spot on Ryuji’s hand gripping him. It’s too much for just a second, and then Ryuji pulls away. 

Reality comes seeping back into his senses. The room is quiet. The laptop’s long since gone to sleep and Ryuji’s breath is no longer right against his ear. A quickening of shame and embarrassment and maybe even the start of a panic attack all curdle up in his watery guts, start to churn and make him queasy. He doesn’t bother to clean himself up before shoving his dick back into his pants and zipping up quick. He should probably apologize, see if Ryuji will agree to forget this ever happened. They can still work together as Thieves, he’s sure, but being friends is out of the question now. He knew he’d ruin this eventually, but hadn’t expected it to be so  _ soon. _ Shit.

Chagrined, horrified, he glances up through his bangs with an apology on his lips… but Ryuji’s just wiping his hand on a tissue, shaking his head a little with a fond smile on his face.

“You ok, man?” Should Ryuji really be the one asking that?

“Yeah, uh. Fine?” His hands are still shaking a little, he thinks. Ryuji still doesn’t look fazed. He wakes the laptop and restarts the long-forgotten video of the Russian girl and her human dildo.

“See, that’s a lot better than doin’ it all… wham bam, you know?” He takes his own cock in his hand again and starts working himself back up to full mast. There’s no plausible reason to keep watching him now, but Akira does anyway. The post-orgasmic shame in his guts has drained away, deflated by Ryuji’s utterly nonchalant attitude. His hands move on himself just as they had on Akira, but surer, faster. He wants so badly to lay his head on his friend’s shoulder again, to press close and watch properly, to lose himself in his scent again. But that’s pushing it way too far. Now it’s time to act normal. 

As much as he can.

He forces himself to stretch and scoot over, grab his phone off the table by the old TV and scroll through it like he’s actually looking at something interesting instead of using it as a shield between his eyes and Ryuji’s cock. He almost misses the low gasp, the shuddering exhale as Ryuji finally finishes. Almost. He’s not looking at his phone anymore. He’s watching those long, dark eyelashes curled on Ryuji’s cheek as his eyes squeeze shut, watching his half shaved eyebrows scrunching together, watching the way his back arches just a little and his chest heaves and his nose wrinkles up.

Shit.

He’s not going to be able to  _ not  _ see that. Any time Ryuji wrinkles his nose in concentration or screws his eyes shut when he’s working out, he knows he’ll see it. And then it’s over, just like that, and Ryuji is wiping his hands off again, tucking himself away and stopping the video. Akira had forgot the video was even still playing. He scrambles to look like he’s been concentrating on his phone this whole time. Acting normal.

“That was effin’ awesome, dude.” Akira looks up, forcing nonchalance into his expression. Ryuji’s grinning big and bright and Akira can feel the urge to grin back squirming under his fake-neutral expression. Ryuji’s smile just has that effect.

“Thanks…? It’s uh. It was fun?”

“Fun? Izzat all you got? After I kept you from gettin’ calluses on your dick and everything!” He looks mock-wounded and now Akira just wishes he had something besides his phone to throw at him and wipe that smug look off his face.

“Does that mean you’re volunteering for later? Gonna be my real right-hand man?”

“ _ Hey _ ! Like I got time for that, dude!”

“That’s not a no.”

“Shut uuup!” Ryuji tackles him flat against the bed, scrubbing a pillow into Akira’s face until he’s flailing and punching him in the ribs.

It’s like the seasons changing, all at once. No more tension and guilt and weird wrongness in the air, just wrestling and trying to get one up on his best friend. Normal. He bucks him off, pillow and all, and almost has him pinned before Ryuji shoves him away like nothing and dives for his phone on the couch.

“Oh shit—hey get offa me—what time is it, shit! I gotta get home!” Akira picks himself up off the floor as Ryuji throws on his jacket and gathers up his bag and manga and phone in a rush. Akira just watches him pack up and follows down the stairs, to the cafe door. “Hey, see you tomorrow right? We’re goin’ back to the palace?”

“Yeah… of course.”

“Cool! I’ll see you, dude!” He flashes that steel-melting smile again, and pulls Akira into a quick hug, so that Akira’s face is pressed against his neck again, just for a second. He smells so  _ good. _ Akira’s heart stutters. And then his best friend’s running off down the little back alley street. And then he’s gone. 

The night air is warm and humid and full of crickets and cicadas and traffic noise. The ghost of Ryuji’s touch lingers on his skin. He leans against the doorframe for a second, mind blank and heart full.

Then he turns away and closes the door.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> It's not a sad ending, I swear!
> 
> anyway, tumblr is a wasteland, come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bubblebangbaby).


End file.
